Depending on whom you talk with, Norman Mailer's death was either an occasion for tears at the fall of a giant, or sighs of relief at the overdue passing of a reactionary windbag. If we must play the guessing game over which Great American Novelist will next taste the Grim Reaper's scintillating sceptre (Updike or Roth? Joyce Carol Oates perhaps? Or why not Toni Morrison for the big kill?), what of the larger concern? Why does the US reserve its laurels for authors born before 1940?

Conventional wisdom suggests that these grand old fogeys can write almost anybody under the table. But the middle-aged novelist has become that unruly kid sent to the corner with a dunce cap. One would assume that Denis Johnson, Richard Powers, and William T Vollmann winning National Book Awards over the past three years would be enough to secure their fates as Novelists to Watch. And that's just it. Unless these novelists somehow manage to usurp Angelina Jolie's divine right to promote her latest philanthropic endeavour before sycophantic interlocutors, there may be no chance for celebrating the Great American Novelist outside of Oprah Winfrey.

This may have something to do with a reluctance to publicise. Mailer was bold enough to write advertisements for himself and bout like a lout on 1970s TV. Not so this lot. Weeks ago, Johnson sent his wife, Cindy, to collect the award while he was on assignment in Iraq. And when Tree of Smoke was released, the book's publisher, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, remained quietly petrified when Johnson opted not to conduct any interviews. (Johnson, however, was a good sport. An interview was posted not long after he won the award.) As for Vollmann, well, writing a lengthy book about the impoverished ain't exactly a meal ticket to media stardom.

The situation is more troubling for younger writers. Forget the dog and pony show and the fawning praise on the junket circuit: it's the books they come to bury. Melvin Jules Bukiet recently disdained a form of book that he styled Brooklyn Books of Wonder. Pay no attention to Jonathan Safran Foer or Dave Eggers, for their trite and gimmicky fiction comes from a detestable nexus operating somewhere in the vicinity of Park Slope. (Never mind that Eggers is based in San Francisco.) Whether one cares for these novelists or not, if this same argument had been made 30 years ago, we'd have to dismiss such stylistic innovators as Donald Barthelme, John Barth and Gilbert Sorrentino.

Even the celebrated American literary outlets are content to pass up striplings. With the exception of Denis Johnson and Edward P Jones, last year, the New York Times Book Review could not squeeze in any additional novelists under 60 into its distressingly male-centric list of runner-ups and multiple votes for the Best American Fiction over the past 25 years.

America has to do better. The time has come for this nation to recognise that literature needs to be a far more inclusive field. America must learn to celebrate its emerging talents. But the buck doesn't stop with reception. Maybe the Great American Novelists need to understand, as Mailer did so well, that contending with the cult of personality is a small price to pay to get people dancing about literature.